Even when the morning arrived, Isaac was still asleep.
He remained in a state of comatose, a slumber neither natural nor restful. His breathing was shallow but steady, and his wounds, though sealed, seemed to pulse faintly as if something still fed on them. The scent of iron never fully left the room.
Arabella had been sitting there since dawn, a book open in her lap, though her eyes had long ceased to follow the words. She had been reading about the King of Versailles, hearing whispers of him from the other sorcerers in the castle, rumors strung together like threads of dread.
Some said he was a phantom, a relic who ruled from the shadows. Others said he was dead, and that the crown had been taken over by a demon who merely wore his face. And yet others, those braver or more foolish, claimed they had seen him once, during a blood eclipse, his eyes gleaming brighter than rubies in the dark.
She had heard all of these, and none of them felt quite real.
Until she reached Lily.
